


Lose Myself to You, to Love, to Lyrics

by lonelyhourglass47



Category: Twosetviolin
Genre: Brett is an angel, Crying, Eddy is a little slow, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Kissing, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Out, Misunderstandings, Pining, Singing Brett, a reference to masturbation, if you find it hey good for you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-12 06:01:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29505192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelyhourglass47/pseuds/lonelyhourglass47
Summary: Maybe Eddy is overthinking it. But there's no reason at all to ruin a phenomenal work by playing the entire thing in a minor key, unprecedented at that. It's a disservice to the listener's ears.Then he remembers that Brett still thinks he's alone, and that the only one listening is himself.So it makes perfect sense that he feels comfortable enough to start singing as he plays, singing to a piece with no lyrics. He's made up his own.-"Who needs angels to carry you to heaven when your angel is right here?"-In which Brett writes lyrics for the first time, and Eddy gradually works to find their hidden meanings; once he does, he has to face his own denial and make a decision: what to do about the feelings of one Brett Yang.
Relationships: Eddy Chen/Brett Yang
Comments: 5
Kudos: 36





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I think this is a pretty cool concept (which is why I'm posting it here), but if you seriously dislike lyrics and interpretation and shit (excuse my language), you can honestly skip to chapter 2 and scroll down until you get to all the fluffiness. It's well over a thousand words I believe, so have a field day with that.
> 
> As for the rest of you, I hope you enjoy my 4 am nonsense! I was actually playing Gymnopédie No. 1 on my keyboard at night when I got a random thought which said hey wouldn't it be cool if this piece had lyrics? and in my mind I thought no no no, sacrilegious, but alas, here we are.
> 
> PS I apologize if there are any capitalization errors. My tired 4 am mind decided to write this in all lowercase so there might still be a few of those here and there.

Whenever Brett can’t handle something, he saves himself and his sanity with music. He’ll sit down, shove his headphones over his ears and pull up a playlist. Some Tchaikovsky here, Ysaye there, a little bit of Mahler or Ravel depending on the day. Whenever Eddy’s near he’ll switch over to Debussy, in case Eddy asks to listen with him. Sometimes Eddy will join him in the living room, notice the way he’s leaned back against the couch, eyes closed, lost in another concerto, and leave him be, allowing him to release whatever anxiety he has through the resolution coming up at the end of the movement.

During practice time, Eddy notices how Brett squints a bit when he’s slightly out of tune, and how as the session progresses he tends to slouch more and his wrists begin to tense. When Eddy finally convinces him to take a break, Brett will mutter criticisms of his own playing under his breath; his harmonics weren’t projecting, his vibrato was too quick, the double stops weren’t in tune. Eddy hears it all, but he lets Brett have his doubts because trying to intervene, to tell Brett he’s too critical, always ends up in Eddy being told off for not taking things seriously. Eddy doesn’t take offense at the words; he knows Brett is stressed and worn out from the extra hours he’s been putting in. He's awfully dedicated to what they do, and it makes Eddy proud. 

Only once, he peeks into Brett’s room, finds it empty, and as he wanders back down the hall he hears Brett playing  _ piano,  _ at  _ midnight,  _ and the tempo of the piece he’s nailing the ninths to has been deliberately slowed. Eddy knows every note of that piece by heart, and hearing Brett play it at a time like this brings a certain emotion out of him which leads him to step into the doorway of the room where Brett sits on the piano stool with his back to Eddy, tapping away. Eddy leans against the doorframe and listens to the end of the piece, but as soon as Brett has finished he begins again, starting over with the G major seventh chord and following it up with the D. 

It’s Gymnopédie No. 1.

Brett plays the notes on the left hand perfectly in time with each other, the chords ringing out beautifully. Eddy can barely hear his fingers pressing the black keys as he begins the melody on the right hand, that initial F sharp so delicately but deliberately summoned. Although Eddy seemingly sets his focus on the music created from the movement of Brett’s fingers, there’s an odd query pulsing at the back of his mind.

Why is Brett playing this piece over and over, like he’s stuck in a loop?

Surely it’s not for practice, or he would be playing specific parts of the piece rather than the work as a whole. The way he plays suggests that he’s performing, a solo concert for himself, for his ears only. And here Eddy is, standing in the doorway like a fool too ignorant to understand what is possessing his best friend to play the world’s most neutral piece,  _ alone,  _ to his knowledge, when he should be asleep. They both should be. Now he’s planted his feet where he’s surreptitiously interrupting Brett’s privacy, and he can’t seem to put his finger on what sounds so blatantly  _ wrong  _ with Brett’s interpretation of Satie’s work. He’s playing every note and rhythm correctly, sure to use the sustain pedal, so why in the world is something about it so unsettling to Eddy?

He’s never walked up to Brett while the latter is immersed in the music leaking out of his headphones, leaned in and seen Gymnopédie No. 1 displayed on his phone screen. Never. It’s one of Eddy’s favorite pieces, but Brett seems to leave it alone.

Now he’s  _ playing  _ it alone. On an instrument he doesn’t even practice professionally.

_ Could it be…? _

On his third replay of the piece, Brett’s right hand slips and he hits a low F natural rather than F sharp. He stops abruptly, repositions his hands to restart the piece, and this time,  _ oh. _

After the hundreds of times he’s listened to the piece before, Eddy is baffled by his own failure to realize it before. 

Brett had been playing the entire thing in D major. Ignoring the accidentals towards the end, sticking to F and C sharp instead of the B-C-F natural sequence in the second to last phrase, creating dissonance with the low E’s in the left hand. A stark contrast to the way he’s now playing in D  _ minor.  _ By some sheer force of nature, he’s managing to shift every note and chord to a completely different key signature, and though it sounds distinctly more  _ wrong  _ than before, Eddy can tell Brett isn’t making a single mistake playing in a minor key. He wonders then, is there any explanation for playing it wrong before? Now he’s gone and made it worse. Yet the longer Eddy listens, the better the piece sounds; Brett brings out the changed notes in this new key and holds the low notes to mellow underneath the sorrowful chords on beat two of each measure. This could never be correct, the piece sounded bittersweet enough as it was, why did Brett choose to suddenly go and  _ change  _ it? After one slip up, one incorrect F natural?

Maybe Eddy is overthinking it. but there’s no reason at all to ruin a phenomenal work by playing the entire thing in a minor key, unprecedented at that. It’s a disservice to the listener’s ears.

Then he remembers that Brett still thinks he’s alone, and that the only one listening is himself.

So it makes perfect sense that he feels comfortable enough to start singing as he plays, singing to a piece with no lyrics. He’s made up his own.

_ want to listen to waves of the sea. _

_ alone. _

_ there’s no one but me. _

_ want to watch you look up as i speak, _

_ low. _

_ these waters are weak. _

_ now, _

_ pulling me into the great ocean deep. _

_ i’m sinking,  _

_ tides carry me off of my feet. _

_ i’ll drown, _

_ here. _

_ echoes of rasped notes _

_ as i fall under. _

_ save _

_ me. _

Eddy has heard Brett sing words before on rare occasions. Sometimes he’ll sing badly on purpose, other times it’s a short lyric and he stops because he’s afraid of embarrassing himself. Tonight, while he plays the piano and spouts off never-before-heard lyrics of his own creation, Eddy is surprised by two things. One: each syllable fits with each note of the melody, save for the dotted half notes which are variable. Two: Brett’s voice is beautiful.

It has something to do with the way his sounds reverberate off of the walls of the room, and an underlying factor is that he’s already played the piece once through in minor key so he knows which pitches to sing to match the piano. That’s not all, though. His tone has a certain register to it, and he’s emphasizing the emotions brought about by the lyrics with the way his voice wavers slightly in the middle of drawn out syllables, not quite vibrato but something in between. Eddy pays close attention to each lyric Brett sings, quickly beginning to analyze the scene Brett describes. By the time he’s gotten most of what he can out of it, Brett has played halfway through the piece and takes a steady inhale of air to begin the next phrase.

_ want to listen to your angels sing _

_ fallen. _

_ another cursed dream. _

_ want to feel you grab a hold of me _

_ and pull _

_ me out of the sea. _

_ now, _

_ caught my bad lie when i claimed they were weak. _

_ i struggle, _

_ they wash my hands clean from above _

_ of love, _

_ here _

_ whisp’ring your name _

_ down the hall, _

_ can you hear _

_ from your _

_ bed- _

_ room? _

As soon as the last chord has made its way around the room, his voice fades and he takes his fingers away from the piano keys. Immediately following a sigh he says, “I know you’re there,” and Eddy briefly feels his bones jump out of his skin.

“So-Sorry,” Eddy stutters, taking a step back, out of the threshold before Brett spins around to face him and Eddy finally sees the expression he wears, one of deep exhaustion long settled in, with a false smile that covers the emotions left over from the late night performance.

“No, no, it’s okay. You can come in if you like,” Brett tells him, beckoning Eddy into the room. He stands there awkwardly after walking in, watching Brett push his hair away from his forehead.

“You played Gymnopédie in a minor key,” Eddy comments, and Brett nods.

“I’ve been practicing it that way sometimes when you’re out. I don’t know why, but it speaks to me.”

Eddy remembers his astonishment at Brett’s smooth transition from major to minor key, thinking that he had done it with no prior experience. “Oh. That makes more sense,” he says, nodding slowly, then presses, “and those lyrics, you wrote them yourself?”

A small smile plays at the corners of Brett’s mouth. “Yeah.”

A silence between them. He tries: “What are they about?” and Brett’s eyes light up, but the gleam is instantly replaced by a look of panic. Eddy wonders if the lyrics are personal. 

“I guess it couldn’t hurt to tell you,” Brett mumbles, and then sits up a bit. “You remember the beginning bit about the waves, yeah?”

Eddy grins. “Right,” he confirms.

“The person, or, uh, me since I’m the singer, the first part is obviously explaining me physically being engulfed by the sea and sinking to the bottom, slowly drowning or whatever. On a figurative level it symbolizes some outside force pulling me away from where I want to be. That can be interpreted on many different levels.”

“What is the outside force?” asks Eddy, and Brett bites his lip.

“I dunno actually. Self-absorption?”

“Dude, if self-absorption is taking you  _ away  _ from where you want to be, then where the fuck is your dream location?”

Brett laughs. “It’s not a location.” 

Eddy thinks of where Brett might want to be. Better off financially? More skilled musically? Romantically involved with someone?

_ Yes.  _ That. Thousands of lyrics are about a special person.  _ Could it be…? _

“What, don’t tell me you’ve got eyes on a girl,” says Eddy, smirking devilishly. But Brett quickly shakes his head.

“No, not that. You’re on the right track though.” Before Eddy can respond to that, Brett continues. “Anyway, for the sake of the explanation let’s say where I want to be is with a person.” Eddy thinks,  _ knew it.  _ “As I’m pulled into the water I ask that person to save me. It’s basically in second person point of view. I’m speaking or singing to the person I want to be with.”

“That's funny, since you were technically singing to me,” Eddy points out, and he catches the brief look of fear residing in Brett's eyes. “Oh, is it a platonic thing?”

Brett seems reluctant to answer. “Whatever, man,” he mumbles. “Um, the second set of lyrics is as if I'm sitting at the bottom of the ocean, like, in the process of dying because I can't breathe underwater—meaning I can't seem to breathe without this person beside me, I know it’s cringe, okay.”

“It’s not,” Eddy interrupts, stepping forward. “Your lyrics are incredible.”

Brett lets off a nervous chuckle. “Thanks. You haven’t even heard what they all mean yet.”

“Yeah, so get on with it,” teases Eddy.

“Don’t interrupt me again then,” Brett retorts. Eddy sticks his tongue out at him. “So, as I'm dying, I basically say that I want to accept it and majestically float up to heaven like the graceful musician I am, but I can’t go that easily because I still have hope for you—I mean the person, to pull me out. The idea of dying is the ‘cursed dream’. So yeah, I want the person to save me from my own flaws—the outside force—and bring me back to them.” 

Eddy listens intently, trying to anticipate the reveal of who this mysterious person is. Brett continues. “After I start to drown, the person is able to see that I clearly lied about how I had been handling my own failures. Again: part of the outside force. They dragged me down and began to kill me even after it seemed as though I had been fine until then.”

Eddy has to speak up then. “Is this a cry for help or something? Are you okay?” A hand reaches out to rest on Brett's shoulder.

He brushes Eddy’s hand away. “Yeah, of course I’m okay, bro. My lyrics are just dark.” He laughs then, more relaxed. “So that’s it.”

Eddy quirks a brow. “No it’s not. What about the last two, three parts?” Brett stares at him blankly. “There was something about ‘they wash my hands clean of love’ and some other stuff after that. Tell me.”

Brett’s face goes red, and he avoids eye contact with Eddy. “The end is a bit more personal. I’d rather have you try to figure it out yourself.”

Eddy huffs out a sigh of frustration, and his arms come up to cross in front of his chest. “Can you sing it for me again? The whole thing; play the piano too.”

“Demanding,” Brett teases with an eye roll. He turns back to the piano, his left hand finding the starting note. “Sure.”

He plays it again, almost identical to the first time only with less confidence, and Eddy listens to each flowing lyric carefully, memorizing the last few lines to think about later as he’s trying to sleep, the hidden message in  _ ‘they wash my hands clean from above / of love’ _ sure to go right over his head for a long time to come.

  
  
  


“Is every single word in your lyrics essential to the meaning?” Eddy asks him with a mouthful of waffle the next morning. Brett leans away from his laptop and stretches. He’d been cooped up there for two hours already working on who knows what.

“Yes, Eddy, every single word,” he responds, and it almost sounds sarcastic, but Eddy knows better.

He takes a sip of coffee and sighs. “Dude, I never interpret lyrics. I’m shit at it. You’ve got to help me somehow.”

“If  _ you  _ can’t figure it out, that sounds like  _ your  _ problem,” Brett says, sassy. But Eddy is staring at him with the eyes of a lost puppy, and he doesn’t think he can resist. “Alright, okay, I’ll give you one hint.”

“Yes! Tell me your secrets, maestro,” Eddy offers, and Brett’s lips twitch upwards.

“Why do you call me that,” he mutters with a chuckle. “What’s the next lyric, after the ones I’ve explained already?”

Eddy recalls the previous night and Brett’s smooth, even tone as he had sung the words. “Pretty sure it’s  _ ‘I struggle’ _ .”

Brett sinks a little lower into his seat somehow and rests his chin in his hand. “This isn’t strictly said in the lyrics, but what I mean there is that I’m struggling against the angels from the beginning of the second half. Since I’m dying from lack of oxygen they’re trying to pull me up to heaven, but I don’t want to go.”

“Bro, that’s awfully depressing,” Eddy chuckles. “You still sure you’re alright?”

Brett rolls his eyes, licks his lips. “Yes. There was your hint. In the next line when I say  _ ‘they’ _ I’m referring to the angels or whatever.”

Eddy nods his head and breathes out a sigh. “Right. So, hopefully you’re not so cryptic that I can’t figure out the rest. You really ought to write poetry or something.”

Brett acknowledges his statement with a hum at first before it registers in his mind, and he says, “Poetry has no melody. The emotion is all trapped there on paper.”

“Technically poetry can have a melody,” Eddy tries. “Don’t you know?”

“No, poetry can have a  _ rhythm, _ ” corrects Brett, hardly finding the energy to tease him about his mistake. “You don’t read a poem and sing different pitches like a song.”

“Ah, but that’s when  _ you _ can step in and write poetry that  _ does  _ have a melody,” Eddy suggests to him, grinning as if it’s truly a good idea. “You can read it at the coffee shop on Tuesday nights and stand in front of the microphone singing. I could play background music, if you want. It could be your new career!”

Brett snorts and rubs at his temples. It’s been too long of a morning to hear this now. “Like I’d want a different career. Only place I want to be is in front of a camera with you, not being an idiot in a coffee shop.”

Eddy turns away, unsure of why Brett’s words have caused a blush to spread across his cheeks. It must be the warmth of his coffee.

  
  
  


Angels.  _ Angels.  _ Eddy lies awake at night, contemplating the possible symbolic significance of angels in Brett’s lyrics. Somewhere on his mind’s back burner, a wild thought boils which dreamily lets him know that  _ Brett is like an angel. _

He slips out of bed and stretches his legs, creeping towards his door and promptly exiting his bedroom. He plans to slink over to the kitchen, maybe to get some warm milk so he can relax more and fall asleep faster. He stops in the middle of the hallway though when he hears soft noise in Brett’s bedroom.

It’s important to note that Brett always leaves his door open at night, for what reason Eddy doesn’t know, but he is aware that Brett must be asleep at this hour, so his curiosity gets the best of him and he stops in front of the door to listen. Another noise rings out, barely too quiet for Eddy to understand, so he goes against his better judgement and reaches a hand out, the pads of his fingers pushing the door open more.

It’s at that exact moment that he looks over at the bed and sees only Brett’s hair sticking out from beneath a mound of blankets, and a quiet mumble of “Eddy” slips past his lips.

It’s almost freaky, at first, because Eddy briefly thinks Brett is awake and knows he’s there until a quiet snore interrupts the silence and Eddy visibly relaxes. He hears Brett sigh in his slumber, and then he whispers, “C’mere, Eddy” and Eddy’s imagination runs wild with what Brett could be dreaming about. The latter rolls over onto his back, his eyelids exposed from their cover underneath the blankets. Eddy’s sure he hears Brett mumble something along the lines of, “Give me the bubble tea,” but he can neither confirm nor debunk it.

He’s about to leave, to give Brett his privacy back, but he freezes in the doorway when he realizes it, as Brett whispers again; Eddy’s only able to make out, “My best—Eddy,” but upon hearing his own name a third time he knows this must be it.

_ whisp’ring your name down the hall _

Brett had been singing to Eddy within the lyrics themselves. That person Brett wants to be with? It’s Eddy. He won’t go further to theorize in what context Brett means this, so he assumes it is indeed a platonic thing and steps out of the threshold, back into the hallway.

He doesn’t need to be ten times as interested now in figuring out the rest of the lyrics. It’s just Brett. Brett isn’t that much of an enigma.

Still, Eddy hears the echo of his name when he’s back in bed and trying to sleep despite the pounding of his heart in his chest.

_ Eddy _

He breathes in deep and pretends not to hear. He’s probably imagining it, after all.

_ Eddy _

He doesn’t think he’ll ever hear it the same from this point forward when Brett says his name during the daytime.

Must be 3 am talking.

  
  
  


Eddy turns the camera off and settles back into his seat, stretching his limbs after a tiring half hour of recording. It’s late and they both want to sleep, but work won over and they had to find something to record before bed. Brett slowly stands and makes to leave, but Eddy stops him by grabbing the sleeve of Brett’s hoodie, watching as the latter spins back around to face him and rubs at his tired eyes, sighing peacefully. “What is it? Do you need something?”

Eddy remembers the other minute detail he had discovered last night, when sleep wouldn’t come to him even after an hour of tossing and turning. That one word in Brett’s lyrics.  _ here.  _ He had meant  _ here _ as in their home, right? When he first sang the lyrics he was playing piano in their home, so if every word is significant to the meaning like he said,  _ here  _ must be that clue. Eddy almost smacks himself for not seeing it sooner, because it could have shed some light on the overall meaning a lot quicker than having to accidentally stumble upon Brett whispering Eddy’s name in his sleep. Now, Brett’s looking down at him expectantly, and Eddy has to take a few seconds to register what the former had just asked him.

Eddy shakes his head, can’t stop the smile that creeps onto his face at Brett’s consideration, and licks his lips before speaking. “Hey, that person your lyrics address, is it me?”

Brett blinks once, twice, and visibly tenses, pulling his arm out of Eddy’s hold. He seems uncomfortable now, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Um, yeah?” His voice raises significantly in pitch, and Eddy laughs, because he doesn’t have a clue why Brett is this panicky over a simple question. Apparently laughing was not the correct response, however, as Brett looks taken aback and stumbles backwards like he’s about to book it to his room.

Eddy interrupts with a solid, “What’s so concerning about writing some lyrics for your friend? You look like you’re going to faint.” Brett blinks again, once, twice, and visibly relaxes, letting his arms droop at his sides. The word  _ friend _ rings in his ears, and he offers a trying smile.

“Wow, I thought I made it obvious that my lyrics are about you,” he says easily. “Took you long enough to get it.”

Eddy rolls his eyes and shoves at Brett lightly. “Yeah, it only clicked for me when I heard you  _ moaning  _ my name last night.” It’s a silly joke, is all.

But Brett’s mouth goes dry, and his eyes widen significantly. “What? Moaning? How did you hear that?”

Eddy laughs at first, saying, “I didn’t, it was only a joke.” But then he realizes just what Brett had said, and now it’s Eddy’s turn to freak out for a second. He explodes with, “Hold on, were you actually moaning my name last night? You weren’t—what the  _ fuck? _ ”

Brett waves his hands frantically at Eddy as if to signify  _ no, no, don’t jump to conclusions,  _ and he hops back in with a desperate exhale, saying, “No, god, that’s not what i meant, don’t get the wrong idea you idiot!”

“Then why did you say ‘how did you know that?’” Eddy interrogates, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Brett rakes a hand down his face and sighs. “I’m exhausted, man, you know I tend to say stupid meaningless shit when I’m exhausted. You really think that I’d—fuck, I won’t even say what you were thinking. That’s honestly—It would be pretty fucking weird if I was  _ moaning  _ your name in any context, let alone at night in my bedroom.”

Eddy chuckles, and he’s reassured by Brett’s toothy grin and the playfully disappointed shake of his head. “You’re right,” Eddy admits, extending his leg to poke Brett’s foot with his own. “We’re both idiots when we’re tired. Go get some sleep.”

Brett hops away when Eddy assaults him with his feet, squealing like he’s been stung by a jellyfish. “You’d better sleep too. I noticed the bags under your eyes today.”

Eddy blinks a few times and shrugs, watching Brett walk away, not even registering where his eyes drift to on Brett’s body. “There you go again, always looking out for me. I’ll let you know when I’ve finished deciphering those lyrics.”

“You do that,” Brett says, and steps into his room, closing the door so that he can change his clothes.

And if Eddy briefly imagines what it would be like to watch Brett take his clothes off, it must be because he’s tired.

  
  
  


Brett taps his fingers on the table while Eddy taps his pencil on his paper, and when Eddy starts to mindlessly drum the rhythm to the third movement of Sibelius Brett joins in, until Eddy looks up and eyes Brett curiously. 

“Do you believe in God?” Eddy asks, one of the most random things he could, and Brett stares at him blankly.

“We’ve been friends for fourteen years and you’re asking me this  _ now? _ ”

Eddy chuckles, averts his gaze to look back at the paper he’d frantically written Brett’s lyrics on so he wouldn’t forget them. A check mark next to each line he’d figured out, only a few left among the ones that remain coded. “Well, do you?”

Brett sighs and scratches his head, says, “No, of course not. Do you?”

“I think there could be something out there. But I don’t believe in heaven and hell or any of that bullshit. And all the restrictions for like, getting into them.”

Brett snorts. “Yeah, like premarital sex or homosexuality. Who the hell came up with those rules?”

Eddy quirks a brow, tapping his pencil against his lips. “How come those are the first ones you thought of?” He doesn’t mean much by the question, but for someone learning to look for all the hidden meanings in words, he allows himself to ask.

Brett leans back, making an effort to appear nonchalant as he replies, “Those are the most common ones you hear Christians chastising people for, no? I just think, heaven wouldn’t be all that nice itself if gays weren’t allowed in, people who are only trying to be themselves.” Eddy doesn’t respond, seeming pensive as he traps the end of the pencil between his teeth and holds it there. Brett bites his bottom lip and stands, sweeping his laptop up in his arm. “I gotta practice,” he mumbles, and leaves the room too quickly to avoid suspicion.

It’s then that Eddy’s eyes slide over one of the unchecked lines on the paper, the one that reads in messy handwriting:  _ they wash my hands clean from above / of love _ .

From above, meaning what, the angels again? Heaven? And the rest meaning to get rid of the love Brett feels? Meaning, possibly, that these angels will only let Brett into heaven if he  _ doesn’t  _ love, meaning,  _ Brett’s love is forbidden? _

Eddy recalls their most recent conversation, and what strikes him is how  _ guilty  _ Brett had sounded defending homosexuals. Eddy refers back to the lyrics and finds the final line unchecked, which also happens to be the last line in general.

_ can you hear from your bedroom? _

Thinking back to how Brett had whispered his name that night, how Eddy kept hearing it in his head even after he went back to his room, once again: how did he not make the connection sooner; and the guilt and shame etched into that lyric alone finally causes Eddy to  _ understand. _ Brett is, well, he feels guilty for the feelings he has. He’s torn between wanting Eddy to know—hence the creation of these lyrics and the challenge to decipher them—and worrying that his actions are obvious enough to let the secret out prematurely when he isn’t prepared. Eddy takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, taking his pencil and checking off both lines on the paper, and as soon as this is done he packs his notebook away and slinks off to his bedroom where he looks at himself in the mirror above his dresser, slaps his hands down on the wood to ground him, and blinks once, twice, before that thought finally surfaces in his mind.

Brett Yang is in love with him.


	2. Chapter 2

To be completely honest, Eddy doesn’t think he feels the same. He’s given hints in the past that would make it seem like he’s not straight, and hints that he could be into Brett, but they were all jokes.

_ “Me! I have a crush on Brett, he’s mine!”  _ Eddy buries his face into his pillow and cringes, wishing he could take back that stupid moment. And Brett had smiled, why did he have to smile?

_ “Should we tie it like this?”  _ Curling his fingers in the spaces between Brett’s. Eddy cringes again, then briefly remembers how his heart skipped a beat when Brett mirrored the movement of Eddy’s fingers, even squeezing Eddy’s hand for the smallest moment before pulling away altogether and saying,  _ “Nah, that’s too much.”  _ How Eddy was met with a shifty gaze and reddened cheeks. How Eddy had to deal with the blush on his own face as well.

_ “Look at that. How awesome is that? Twoset—“  _ Cut off by a squeal when Eddy slapped Brett’s ass. Had been debating whether to do it or not for a few seconds, and now he remembers how the noise Brett made, though it was only one of surprise and frankly not that pleasant to the ears, well, that noise went straight to Eddy’s dick, and some unwelcome images had flashed in his mind. He played normal for the camera, but he felt hot all over and tried to convince himself that it was due to the scorching temperatures outside. 

He remembers the fond smile that crept onto his face when Brett handed him coffee one morning, he remembers the tingly feeling creeping up his leg when Brett playfully tapped his foot with his own while practicing, and he remembers the overwhelming joy he felt when Brett couldn’t find his jacket one day and hastily grabbed Eddy’s, the green one, and pulled it onto himself, noticing how it was slightly too big but it didn’t change how  _ adorable  _ he looked, and Eddy’s train of thought got away from him at the sight, and,

And Eddy cries out with his face still smushed into his pillow, doesn’t know what to do because the signs are telling him he  _ does  _ feel the same, but for some reason he refuses to believe it. At first, anyway.

However, he has no choice but to believe it when the next week that passes provides constant reminders of how hilarious Brett is, and talented, and kind, generous, cute, fun, the list goes on. Every time their shoulders bump while they’re sitting next to each other Eddy wants to turn and grab Brett’s face so that he can smush their lips together. He’s tired of waiting, but then again, he isn’t sure why he’s waiting at all. He  _ knows  _ how Brett feels, right? He could easily confess at any time.

It’s not that simple, he thinks, because Brett deserves only the best. Eddy feels this overwhelming pressure to get his feelings out there in the best way possible. He overworks his brain every night going over the options, crossing out ideas, finding the perfect words. It’s silly, it’s extraneous, but he has to. Brett wrote a bunch of heartfelt lyrics just to show Eddy how he feels, so Eddy has to match that in some way!

He’s busy debating the word  _ love  _ in his confession one night when he hears distant piano playing, soft and melodic. Debussy’s Clair de Lune, no doubt. So of course he makes his way down the hall and quietly pushes the door open to hear better, and to watch Brett’s nimble fingers work over the keys. This reminds Eddy of that night, with the lyrics, and Gymnopédie, except this time Brett hasn’t changed anything about the piece he’s playing. It’s perfect.

Absolutely nothing wrong with the way he plays it, quite the opposite in fact, so Eddy doesn’t understand why Brett lets out a quiet sob as soon as his fingers come off of the keys at the end. 

He opens his mouth before he has the time to think about what he’s doing: “Brett, are you okay?” he asks sweetly, and Brett jumps, clearly not expecting him to be there this time. He swivels around to face Eddy and immediately punches Eddy in the gut with the pained and troubled expression Brett wears. Tears stream down his face as he takes a deep breath and finally says what he’s thinking, no more hiding behind cryptic lyrics.

“I’m hurt, okay? I put time and effort into writing those stupid lyrics so that maybe, maybe you’d figure them out, and maybe you’d feel the same, and then you could make the next move so the burden wouldn’t be on me. I’m not good at this kind of thing, and I’m always too scared to say something because I’m afraid of ruining what we have, but it seems like I already did. I know you figured it out, Eddy. So when an entire week has gone by and you haven’t said anything or made a move, I…” He trails off for a moment, wiping a few of the larger tears from his face, though more continue to fall. “I’m upset. Embarrassed, actually. I thought this could have turned into something, but you only see me as a friend, fuck.” Eddy wants to speak, but Brett dismisses him with the wave of his hand. “I--Was it naive of me to think you could love me?”

Eddy’s face falls, and Brett sobs again, loud and remorseful. His sadness is so loud it fills Eddy’s ears to the point where he can’t think straight, but his hands shake as he steps closer, sitting down next to Brett on the piano stool. Brett won’t look at him, not until Eddy reaches a hand up and places it on the side of Brett’s face, palm against his cheek, and turns Brett’s face towards him. With his free hand he removes Brett’s glasses and sets them down gingerly on top of the piano. Still, Brett has trouble making eye contact, though luckily he obeys when Eddy mumbles, “Look at me.” Brett’s bottom lip is quivering, but now his eyes aren’t leaving Eddy’s despite his shame and sorrow. Eddy swipes his thumb across Brett’s cheek, wiping away one of the tears trickling down, then reaches his other hand up to Brett’s other cheek and does the same with that thumb. “I can, I--” Eddy chokes on his own words, has to take a deep breath to stabilize himself before trying again. He isn’t sure what this exchange is between them, but he knows what he says next is exactly what he feels. “I can, no, I--I do love you. More than I’ve shown you.”

Brett stares at him, and for a moment Eddy isn’t sure if he heard him in the first place. Then Brett blinks away the remaining tears, and he searches Eddy’s face for any signs of dishonesty. “If that’s true, why didn’t you say anything?” he whispers, and Eddy almost laughs at how youthful Brett seems.

“I wanted to make it perfect when I told you, couldn’t figure out what to do. Get you flowers, or bubble tea, or write my own lyrics to confess to you...I know it’s sappy but you deserve something special.”

Brett smiles, small but it still means the world to Eddy. “I don’t...You know, if I were you I wouldn’t want to be getting me bubble tea after I snapped at you like that.”

Eddy giggles and brushes his thumb over Brett’s bottom lip, paying attention to the way Brett’s breath hitches. “‘S okay, I’d have done the same thing you did. I was an idiot for waiting so long to do this.” He leans in as he’s speaking, and by the end of the sentence Brett can feel Eddy’s breath ghosting over his lips. Brett’s eyes flutter shut of their own accord, and Eddy tilts Brett’s chin up. “Who needs angels to carry you to heaven when your angel is right here?” he asks in a whisper, and upon seeing the beautiful blush that spreads across Brett’s cheeks, Eddy leans forward and captures his lips, which feels like the second subject of Sibelius but sounds even better as Eddy listens to the sharp intake of breath from his counterpart and hears the shifting of fabric as Brett reaches up to card his fingers through Eddy’s fluffy hair and sighs against his lips. It’s urgent, Eddy realizes, when they both move closer to one another like they can’t get enough, but more importantly it carries the same satisfaction of having the first sip of cold water on a hot day. Eddy’s hand snakes around to the back of Brett’s head and drifts, his fingertips gliding over the nape of Brett’s neck. Brett gasps and his lips part as a result, and Eddy pokes his tongue out against the opening, asking for permission. He receives a low rumble of approval from Brett’s throat as he parts his lips wider, allowing access.

Eddy’s eager as he takes the bait, sliding past Brett’s teeth and finding Brett’s tongue with his own. Brett’s grip tightens in Eddy’s hair, pulling him impossibly closer. Eddy tilts his head to the side to improve the angle, deepens the kiss while exploring Brett’s mouth with his tongue. Brett’s running out of air, can’t seem to breathe through his nose too well, so he reluctantly tugs Eddy’s hair in the other direction until the latter gets the memo and pulls back, licking his own lips to break the thin string of saliva connecting their mouths. He watches intently as Brett takes more than a few seconds to open his eyes, and once he does so, Eddy marvels at the pools of color he finds in them. He draws his hands away, and Brett is quick to follow; Eddy finds Brett’s lost fingers and takes them in his, standing and guiding Brett to do the same. Wordlessly, they make their way to Eddy’s bedroom, where they collapse on the bed together and immediately find each other’s lips again, Eddy rolling on top of Brett to press his weight against him and achieve a new level of closeness.

Several minutes have passed by the time Eddy playfully bites Brett’s lip, and a feverish whine tumbles out of Brett before he can stop it. Eddy gives him one more peck before pulling back to stare into his face, and Brett looks nothing short of embarrassed. Eddy runs a hand down Brett’s side and watches Brett shiver beneath him, and with a contented sigh and a smile Eddy rolls off of him, laying down on his side and watching Brett turn over as well so that they’re still facing each other.

“Are you sure you feel this way?” Brett asks breathily, wound up from their impromptu makeout session.

Eddy nods, reaches a hand up to play with Brett’s hair. It’s soft, like his expression. “I am. I’m in love with your mouth, and your voice.” He leans forward again, pressing another chaste kiss to Brett’s lips. Brett tries to chase him when he pulls away, and Eddy smirks at how needy he is. Brett’s hands wander carelessly over Eddy’s body, and they’re both breathing hard as Brett strokes his fingers over Eddy’s back. Eddy removes his hand from its resting place in Brett’s nest of hair and travels down below his hips, grabbing Brett’s thigh in his huge palm and hiking Brett’s leg up over Eddy’s. Brett rolls closer, his nose bumping into Eddy’s and causing them both to laugh. “I lose my mind when you touch me,” Eddy murmurs, to which Brett takes Eddy’s hand in his and squeezes. Their eyes meet again, and Brett is the one to lean forward this time, giving Eddy a long, sweet kiss that short circuits his brain. Eddy’s eyes roll back in his head when Brett exhales hot against his lips.

“I love you,” says Brett, and if that isn’t the greatest thing Eddy’s heard in his entire life.

Eddy repeats it back, stresses every syllable as he squeezes Brett’s hand to the rhythm of his speaking.  _ “I love you.” _ Brett melts under his touch. “Let me prove that to you every day from now on.”

His eyes are barely open, but he feels Brett nod anyway, and the latter presses his forehead to Eddy’s lovingly. “Want to sleep here,” he mumbles, sliding his other leg between Eddy’s and effectively tangling the limbs. 

“We can do that,” Eddy agrees, and yawns. Wants to roll over onto his back, pull Brett on top of him and fall asleep at that exact moment, but he’s thinking of something from a week and a half ago and won’t dismiss it without voicing his thought: “You have got to sing for me more often, ‘kay?”

Brett grins and nods again, squeezing Eddy’s hand so hard his fingers might break. He cuddles closer, using his free hand to trace his thumb along the line of Eddy’s jaw as he says, “Anything for you.”

Eddy can’t help himself, rolls over this time and does yank Brett on top of him, their hands still clasped together. He returns Brett’s pleased grin before Brett wipes it right off of his face by kissing him, and it’s incredible enough to feel like the first time all over again; Brett giggles when he finally pulls away, reminding himself that there will be opportunities for more kisses tomorrow, and for every day after that. “All my lyrics will be for you,” he breathes out quietly and contentedly, letting his head fall onto Eddy’s chest where the tempo of Eddy’s heartbeat lures him to sleep, a large hand petting at his hair as Clair de Lune takes a new meaning in his mind. Eddy hums it, he thinks, before following him into sleep as well, his hand stilling in Brett’s hair as Brett’s fingers relax where they rest in Eddy’s.

Still, there’s one last hand squeeze before the night takes them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading!
> 
> PS a fun fact for those of you who made it this far, I was in the middle of writing a fic where Brett has a new hobby of secretly wearing dresses, and then their video came out with the photo recreating and I just think that I might have the ability to predict the future. Anyway. Feel free to leave comments and kudos, I appreciate it!


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